


Get What You Need

by nixwilliams



Series: What you want / What you need [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-18
Updated: 2007-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:23:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nixwilliams/pseuds/nixwilliams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s moderately awkward, but Ash has never been one to let things like comfort get in the way of getting off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get What You Need

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in February 2007. Thanks to missyjack and [johnnypurple](http://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnypurple/pseuds/johnnypurple) for beta reading.

Ash glances up and there’s Sam, propped against the doorframe. Jeans riding low, two bottles of beer in one hand and a hint of red touching the skin at his throat. Ash’s belly twitches against his shirt.

“Hey.” Sam’s voice is quiet, steady enough to almost cover the trace of nervousness scratching around the edges. “What’re you doing?”

“Trackin’ down a long lost buddy.” Ash spins his chair so he’s facing the door, means to catch Sam’s eye, but only makes it as far as the beer bottle. Jesus H. but those hands are big. “Evil dude, yellow eyes. You seen him round?”

Sam’s mouth twitches down at the ends and he manages to somehow look up from under his eyelashes. They stay that way for a minute, in almost-awkward silence, until Sam remembers something and says, “I brought you a beer.”

Ash grins, drawls, “Well, come on in.” Jerks his head in the general direction of the bed and a chair and turns back to his rig. He hears Sam push the door until it clicks quietly, then pad three steps across the room to perch on the squeaky edge of the mattress.

There’s a quiet double-clunk as Sam sets the bottles on the bedside table, and Ash had pretty much expected the night to turn out like this – hell, it’s why the damn door was open. He’d expected it when Sam had finally noticed the way Dean’s left shoulder turned towards the corner of the table, mimicking the curtain-fall of Jo’s hair. Expected Sam might just be up for a repeat performance when Sam’s mouth finished a sentence his eyes had forgotten, glass pausing an inch from his lips before he set his drink down and excused himself. Ash feels a bit sorry for the kid, really. Any dick with half a fucking eyeball can see he’s splashing around lost in a pool of neediness, wanting his big brother to give enough of a shit to pull him out. Same half-eyed dick can see Dean just doesn’t have it in him this week. Ash guesses this makes him a dick, and, you know, apparently he’s OK with that.

He hits a few keys, more to buy time than anything. He’s just fiddling around with the programs anyway, tweaking here and there to get the thing running smooth. When he turns around, he doesn’t expect to find Sam topless and sprawled across his bed. It brings Ash up short for a second.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “If you don’t want to,” he begins, and Ash realises he’s staring.

He blinks, feels the smirk spreading out across his face. “Now why would you think that?” He rolls his chair closer to the bed. Sam’s chest is marked with scabs and there’s an old bruise down the right side of his ribs, the green-brown stain seeping around to his back. Ash takes a minute to appreciate the landscape, because it’s a damn fine view, then reaches out to trace the faint line of an old scar that slithers diagonal across Sam’s belly. Where it ends, Ash curves his fingers so his nails catch on Sam’s skin and he scratches up Sam’s side, too hard to tickle.

Sam frowns, grabs Ash’s hand and traps it against his chest. “I,” he starts, then pauses. “I wanted.” His thumb brushes over Ash’s wrist, sending scratch-tingles up his arm. Sam clears his throat and begins again. “I’m sorry about last time.”

It’s not entirely unexpected, thinks Ash, and raises his eyebrows. Figures Sam’s been beating himself up over the whole unmentioned reciprocal blowjob thing. “Didn’t think it was that bad,” he says, and it sounds more like a challenge than a joke.

Sam’s forehead wrinkles again and that frown is starting to piss Ash off. Sam’s here now, he’s obviously gonna get laid, and this frowning business is plain rude. Ash wonders how one dude can wear that expression for so much of his life and, more pressingly, how Dean deals with it twenty-four seven. Ash tugs his hand out of Sam’s grip and pinches Sam’s nipple. Hard. Sam starts and gives Ash a look that says, quite clearly, _what the hell?_ Ash leans in until his mouth is a fraction of an inch from the nipple, his breath rebounding hot against his lips, and widens his eyes at Sam. “If you don’t want to,” he mimics.

Sam stares at him for a moment, like there’s some important puzzle he’s trying to figure out, then shuffles over to make room. “OK,” he mutters, and guides Ash onto the bed, one hand resting on his hip. It’s moderately awkward, but Ash has never been one to let things like comfort get in the way of getting off, so he makes good on his engagement with Sam’s nipple, flicking it with the tip of his tongue a few times and letting his teeth drag over the tip.

Sam’s hands come up to stroke Ash’s shoulders, pushing slowly under his shirt, and this time he’s too fucking gentle. Soft, like he’s still apologising for the hair grabbing, and fuck _that_ shit for a joke. Ash pins Sam’s good arm against the sheets and drags his face across the faded red-brown graze decorating Sam’s chest. The way Sam’s breath hitches when Ash’s stubble scratches over the scabs makes them both pause for a second, eyes meeting, widening. Somewhere, Ash thinks, a switch has been flicked. He bites at Sam’s inner arm, the side of his ribs, his shoulder. The tang of old blood and sweat is sour in his mouth. He drags his teeth and tongue across the scratches on Sam’s stomach, leaving marks, and rubs his spit into Sam’s skin with his lips and nose and cheek. It’s dirty. It makes his mouth water for more.

Sam’s good hand skates over Ash’s neck, his hair, tugging the collar of Ash’s shirt up over his head. It means Ash has to pause for a moment, giving his arms up and letting Sam all but rip the shirt off him, before he goes back to sucking the salt and tang and spreading it round his mouth. He leaves pink-bitten lines down over Sam’s hips, letting his hair trail into the wetness and stick there. It takes another moment to yank down the zip of Sam’s jeans with one hand, flick the button open and push his fingers under the waistband, easing jeans and underwear down Sam’s thighs. He can’t get enough of Sam’s flesh and he forces his mouth into the softness of Sam’s thigh, tries to _consume_ him, to gorge on the feeling of muscle and warmth until he gags.

And Sam is fucking _watching_ him, propped up on his elbows, eyes blown, mouth hanging loose, lip half twisted in what looks like something between helpless arousal and vague terror. His hands are bunched beside his hips, fingers of his good hand twisted hard in the sheet, and Ash swears he can hear them creak when he peels up his top lip and rubs his teeth in the slick at the head of Sam’s dick. He pulls his head back, letting the stickiness string between his mouth and Sam, and runs his tongue through it, tasting salt and sweetness.

Sam’s breath hitches. “Fucking _do_ it. Do it. Fuck, Ash, come on.” He leans his weight on his bad arm, grabs one of Ash’s hands and jerks it up, shoving three fingers against his mouth and sucking them in. Sucking them hard.

Ash grins, feeling the stretch up his side and keeps his eyes locked on Sam’s face as he runs the flat of his tongue down the side of Sam’s cock, into the crease of his inner thigh. Sam twitches, almost bites, and Ash opens his mouth real wide and wet, scrapes his teeth beside Sam’s balls. Sam makes this little noise and his tongue slicks over with spit, mouth going soft around Ash’s fingers. Ash pulls his hand down, makes sure Sam’s still watching when he wraps it around the base of Sam’s dick and pushes the head past his lips.

The whine it gets out of Sam is classic, and he sets to work. Ash is good at this – he’s had enough damn practice – and he’s got at least a passing knowledge of Sam’s cock, so he wets it up good and proper, gets his hand and Sam’s balls nice and slick. When Sam starts rolling his hips up, Ash slides his fingers back, lets them rest in the crease of Sam’s ass as a question. Sam groans, kicks his jeans off and spreads a little wider, and that’s enough of an answer for Ash to push in.

It’s awkward, and Sam jerks his leg up, almost getting Ash in the neck with his knee. Ash twists around, adds more spit to his hand and pushes in a second finger, then rests his head on Sam’s stomach so Sam can fuck smooth into his mouth. Sam’s hand hovers over Ash’s head, brushing against his hair, and Ash butts up into it, telling Sam it’s OK. He can grab on if he wants.

Sam does; he fists Ash’s hair and pushes him further down onto his cock and Ash choke-moans, twists his fingers in Sam’s ass. It’s almost familiar after last time, the frantic build-up of Sam’s rhythm, the rough sound of Sam’s breath squeezing tight in his throat. Ash closes his eyes against the memory.

When he reaches boiling point, Sam’s voice is thready and light. “Ash. Ash, I’m –,” he says, almost singsong. Ash pulls his mouth back off Sam’s dick, curls the fingers of his other hand, rubs them in tight, hard circles. Sam’s eyes fly open, frantic, searching for Ash’s gaze. “Fuck,” he groans, stretching the word out like a kid with chewing gum, and Ash takes that as his cue to rub his cheek nice and messy all over Sam’s sticky-slick cock. He feels Sam’s rhythm break and brings him over with a couple of well-timed flicks of his wrist. Too late, Ash realises he’s gonna get shit in his hair. He doesn’t bother trying to get out of the way.

It takes a good half a minute or so for Sam’s breathing to calm down. Ash seizes the opportunity to clean up a bit with the corner of his sheet. Almost time for laundry, anyway. He’s just about to do a more personal wash-up, something involving his tongue, when Sam heaves a sigh and taps him on the shoulder. “Here,” he mumbles, and a moment later, “C’mere.” Ash pauses, then ignores him with a shrug, starts licking. Sam full-on squeaks when Ash’s tongue dips into his belly button, and he pulls Ash up. Sam’s eyes are dark, and he kisses slick and hard, tongue all over Ash’s mouth, his lips, his chin.

Sam braces Ash’s jaw, cast grazing skin. In between breathing and licking and biting, he mutters some goddamn dirty stuff against Ash’s face. “ _Shit_ , Ash – fuck. You fucking tease,” he says, voice deep and blown, biting at Ash’s stubble. “I’m gonna suck you now.” He moves his mouth hot and wet against Ash’s cheek and up to his ear. Ash squirms involuntarily, but Sam’s grip is fierce. “I’m gonna suck you until you’re _begging_ me for it,” Sam groans, and his big fucking tongue comes out to wrap around Ash’s earlobe, drawing it in until his teeth click on the silver stud.

“Fuck _shit_ ,” Ash breathes, and can’t stop the instinct to pull away from Sam’s mouth.

Sam’s good hand immediately clamps at the base of Ash’s skull, fisting in his hair, holding him still. “Nuh-uh,” he murmurs, and swipes his tongue with indecent slowness up behind Ash’s ear. “I’m gonna,” he begins, then scrapes his teeth over the helix. “Fuck, Ash, I’m gonna fuck you like this.” Sam’s breath stutters short in Ash’s ear, and Ash hears the tiny, low sounds that Sam can’t quite repress.

And he can’t help the noise that comes climbing out his own throat when Sam pushes one leg between his thighs, rubbing hard against the denim of Ash’s jeans, and he _definitely_ can’t help the noise he makes when Sam flips him around, pressing down on him, caging him onto the bed with his enormous arms. Ash scrabbles not to hit his head on the wall, and tries to get some pillows under him so he can watch as Sam undoes Ash’s jeans, pushes them open and yanks them down. Sam hovers for a moment, looks at Ash like a drunk looks at the first beer – needy and lost, like he already knows exactly what it’s gonna taste like, how it’s gonna feel going down, and how much better everything’s gonna be for drinking it all in.

And that thought kicks weirdly around the back of Ash’s mind when Sam leans forward and _plunges_ Ash’s dick into his mouth, down his throat. It makes Ash wonder if Sam maybe used to practice on a really big bottleneck, because who would’ve thunk he could open up that wide, take Ash in that far on the first go? Fuck. Kid’s pretty much built for sucking cock, isn’t he? Massive fucking hand curving around Ash’s hip, holding him down, lips and tongue – god _dammit_ , Sam’s _tongue_ – working him over.

Ash is fairly sure that the statistical probability of him finding out there really is a God more than quadruples when Sam’s giving him head. “Mary, mother of – _damn_ ,” he mutters.

And then Sam fucking _stops_.

“What the fuck?” It’s out of his mouth before he opens his eyes to find Dean frozen in the doorway. And really, _what the fuck?_ pretty much sums it up.

Dean’s gaze is locked at Sam’s hand against Ash’s thigh and from his place on the pillows, Ash can see Sam’s lips just inches from his dick. Can feel the little breath Sam lets out as it ghosts across his balls, cold against his spit-wet skin. He has all of a second to think _busted_ , then _don’t care_ , then _come on, dude_ , and he’s not sure who the last thought’s directed at.

Dean’s eyebrows rocket up towards his hairline, eyes flick halfway up to Ash’s face, then back to Sam’s. Sam tilts his head just a fraction, eyes narrow with a warning, and it seems to be enough. Dean backs out, gaze down, pulling the door closed.

The soft click of the latch doesn’t ease the tension in the room. They stay still, locked together. Ash is waiting for Sam. Sam’s waiting for something else and seems to get it when there’s a thump out in the corridor that sounds a bit like a fist hitting the wall. “Lock it.” Dean’s voice is muffled through the wood. Ash can’t tell if the amusement underpinning that order is genuine or forced.

“Learn to knock,” mutters Sam, and sends a half-grin in Ash’s direction. “Sorry.” He doesn’t make any move to lock the door.

After that, Sam gets Ash off almost embarrassingly quick. Well, hell, he can’t be blamed for it – Sam’s giant freaking hands are everywhere all at once, slick and hot and _damn_ , has Ash mentioned the kid’s got a tongue on him? Still, he feels kind of awkward when the bedsprings creak and he opens his eyes in time to see Sam snag one of the beers off the table. Ash is not _easy_ like that. Well, he is, but he pretty much thinks that Sam’s gonna take it all the wrong way, gonna think Ash is still hung up on Dean, gonna start brooding and frowning again.

“So, ah,” Ash says, having no idea how he’ll finish - or even start - that particular sentence.

Sam sighs and scrubs his forehead on the inside of his forearm. “We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Aw, Sam.” Ash takes a swig of his beer. Of course they are. He fixes his eyes on the laptop, wonders how long they all have before everything blows up in their faces. “And I thought we were going steady.”


End file.
